Chapter 5 - The Net Closes"Nathan Carter?" Detective Vance asked, stepping up to the head of the table with a grim, satisfied smirk.
"Detective," I nodded, turning to face him. "I believe you're looking for the individuals responsible for attempted murder, corporate fraud, and criminal conspiracy."
Vance didn't blink. He raised his voice so it echoed off the glass walls. "Adrian Harrison, Isabella Carter—you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit premeditated murder and grand financial fraud. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
Panic finally broke through Adrian’s icy exterior. He lunged backward, knocking over his chair as federal agents swarmed him, slamming his wrists into heavy steel handcuffs.
"This is a setup! You can't do this!" Adrian screamed, thrashing as two agents hauled him toward the doors. "Nathan, you arrogant bastard, you'll pay for this! Carter Global will burn without me!"
"Carter Global survived long before you learned how to balance a spreadsheet, Adrian, and it will thrive long after you're forgotten in a maximum-security federal penitentiary," I replied coldly.
Isabella didn't fight. She crumpled to the floor in a heap of designer silk and expensive perfume, sobbing hysterically as handcuffs were locked around her delicate wrists. As the agents dragged her past me, she raised her tear-stained face, her eyes filled with a mixture of hatred and absolute defeat.
"You tricked me," she whispered hoarsely. "You knew all along."
"Rule number one of business, Isabella," I whispered back, leaning down just enough for her to hear. "Never play poker with a man who owns the casino."
Within minutes, the boardroom was cleared of the filth that had tried to rot it from the inside out. The federal agents escorted Adrian and Isabella down to the private service elevators, flashing cameras waiting for them in the lobby downstairs like a pack of starving wolves.
Arthur Sterling walked slowly over to me, exhaling a long, shuddering breath that seemed to release ten years of age from his shoulders. He extended a wrinkled, weathered hand.
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"Well, son," Arthur said, a genuine smile finally cracking his weathered face. "I've seen some hostile takeovers in my fifty years on Wall Street. But faking your own murder on your wedding night just to catch the rats? That's a new personal best."
I shook his hand firmly. "Desperate times call for thorough housekeeping, Arthur."
